


And We Will Come Back Home

by benniebebbie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of child neglect, Near Death Experiences, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, black eagles - Freeform, caspar's family sucks a little, dorothea is there a lot bc i love her, i try to be as nonspecific as possible, i've only played crimson flower hello, it's 8.6k of yearning, light spoilers, my city now, spoilers for linhardt and caspar's paired ending, those are confusing tags next to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 04:00:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benniebebbie/pseuds/benniebebbie
Summary: No matter how much time goes by, how much everything changes, Caspar remains constant.





	And We Will Come Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be like, 2k at most. i played myself. enjoy! :')

To the nobility, children are things to be bought and sold. Crest bearing children in particular are often at the mercy of their parents' whims, groomed from an early age to be as pleasant and lucrative as possible. Their inevitable fate is to be placed in an arranged marriage to build upon their status and to carry on their lineage. Perhaps that's why Linhardt is so envious of Caspar.

  
Being the second son means Caspar has no noble responsibilities, and nobody to answer to except himself. He's free as a bird to roam as he pleases, playing in the woods long past his curfew and causing all the ruckus he could ever want. Linhardt wishes for nothing more than that kind of peace in his own life. No duties to fulfill, no expectations, only himself and his books and his wandering thoughts. Yet he knows it isn't quite fair of him to feel that way. Caspar's life is far from easy, even if Linhardt would like to believe that it is.

  
His father isn't a nasty man per se, but he is certainly a callous one. Cold, even. He lavishes praise and attention upon Caspar's older brother, training him to be as merciless on a battlefield as he had been in his youth. Yet he doesn't direct nearly half of that towards Caspar, who in turn, fights twice as hard to earn the scraps that he gets, but it never seems to be enough. His mother is sweet and well-intentioned, if not a bit distant. The real sore spot in Caspar's life is, in the end, his older brother. If his father is cold, then his brother is permafrost that sticks to Caspar's feet, a reminder that he may never fully escape the painful burn that is his company. He's an awful, arrogant, greedy person, and he's none too kind to his younger brother.

  
"Doesn't it make you a little bit angry?" Linhardt questions one evening, staring up into the sky. It's nearly pitch dark, and realistically, he should be sleeping. He would love to be sleeping, truth be told, but his soft spot for Caspar drove him up out of bed when he awoke to the sound of his friend tapping against the window.

  
Caspar makes a confused noise in the back of his throat, turning his head to level Linhardt with a stare. Linhardt tears his gaze away from the stars to look back at him. Caspar's brow is creased in the middle, and his lips are pursed thoughtfully. "What do you mean?" he replies, pulling his legs close and criss-crossing them in front of his body. There is still energy left in him to be expended, based on the way he rocks back and forth in a rhythm. Linhardt can't relate.

  
He watches Caspar fidgeting in mild exasperation, and begrudging amusement, as he folds his hands in his lap. He sighs. "Aren't you angry that your family's entire fortune is going to your older brother? Or that he doesn't really deserve it anyway?" This seems to sour Caspar's cheerful mood, and he stills.

  
"I dunno..." he mutters, ducking his head down a bit. Truthfully, he looks a lot like a kicked puppy, round eyes unable to meet Linhardt's own and mouth downturned into a frown. "I don't think about it much."

  
A lie, and an obvious one at that. His elder brother is the spitting image of their father, and clearly inherited the strength he has without truly having to work for it. Not like Caspar does. When Linhardt has the energy for it, he may even sometimes find himself frustrated on Caspar's behalf. He leans back against the trunk of the tree they're perched beneath. "Well, you can have my fortune then. I don't want it," he offers with very little fanfare, eyes drooping. It's really beginning to hit him how late it is.

  
Caspar jolts, leaning over Linhardt to stare at him in awe. "B-but! That doesn't belong to me. I didn't earn it," he protests, shaking his head.

  
Linhardt, as endeared by his friend as he is, can't help the slight pang of annoyance at the way Caspar's voice booms over the soft sounds of the forest. He hushes him, nestling into a more comfortable sitting position and pulling his legs close. "Not true," he says with a yawn. "I'd say you've earned twice what I could ever give you." His casual, relaxed tone doesn't betray the sincerity lying beneath.

  
Caspar is silent, which is strange. And when Linhardt cracks an eye open to peer up at him, his face is dusted a bit pink. Even stranger. He continues, undeterred. "It's better off with you anyway. I don't care for that much responsibility; doesn't seem worth the effort." He shrugs. "I'd rather stay right here with my books, where no one could ever bother me."

  
A moment passes, and Caspar shuffles awkwardly where he sits. "No one?" he asks, unusually sheepish.

  
Linhardt leans his head down on his knees, too tired to hold it up any longer. "I might make an exception for you," he murmurs, half asleep already.

  
Or at least, he _was_ half asleep, but Caspar tackling him to the ground definitely wakes him up. His back hits the ground with a thunk, knocking the wind right out of him. Caspar's arms, which are wound tight enough around him to cut off the air flow, don't exactly make for much cushioning either. A strained sound escapes his throat, and he stares down at the mop of unkempt, blue hair pressed into his shirt in utter confusion. The fabric of it muffles a noise, but Linhardt can tell it's laughter. He feels something feather light settling into his stomach.

  
"Then I'll share it with you!" Caspar exclaims, tilting his head up to stare at Linhardt brightly. He beams, overeager as ever. "So we'll always be together, and you can read as much as you want!" His voice carries in the air, rattling against Linhardt's eardrums in a way that really should be getting on his nerves again, but isn't somehow.

  
He smiles back at his friend drowsily. He likes that idea. Loves it, really. It's the perfect escape from the expectations on his shoulders and the pressure to pass his crest onto the next generation, a task he loathes to think about. Besides, he could certainly do worse than being in Caspar's company for the rest of his life. He's a nuisance, sure, but he's _Linhardt's_ nuisance. "That'd be nice," he agrees, wriggling free of Caspar's grip to get more comfortable. His arms are bony, and they're starting to jab into Linhardt's sides, but he doesn't mind being used as a pillow so much. Both of them are much warmer this way. "Do you promise?" he continues, quieter this time. He glances off towards nothing in particular.

  
Caspar tips his head so his cheek is pressed into Linhardt's chest. This is the kind of thing, he begrudgingly thinks, that earns them strange, disapproving looks. It's what causes the arguments that keep Linhardt awake at night, when he would much rather be sleeping. This level of intimacy beyond any form of casual friendship. It's what his father calls "deeply concerning" and his mother claims is something he will simply grow out of. He understands. Really, he does. His gaze is not meant to waver from the girls his parents have lined up before him, because it's his duty as a noble to pass on Saint Cethleann's crest. To choose not to would have him be cast aside and scorned by his family. No matter how he feels about it. Even as young as he is, he knows the cruel reality of his circumstances, yet right here, right now, all of that barely seems to exist. All that exists is the woods, alive with gentle noise, and Caspar, whose hair glows silver under the light of the moon above them.

  
He grins enough to make his eyes narrow and crinkle at the edges, and Linhardt hopes beyond hope that Caspar can't feel how it makes his heart race. "What kinda question is that?" Caspar teases, shrugging slightly. "Of course I promise." And he says it just easily enough, with just enough finality, that a part of Linhardt actually believes it.

When both of them are enrolled at Garreg Mach Monastery to learn from Fodlan's finest, Linhardt almost finds it amusing. His own parents are sending him off with the sole purpose of "straightening him out," and yes, he_ does_ see the irony of that sentiment. Apparently it's supposed to teach him a little something about discipline and work ethic, both things he's none too keen on, truthfully.

  
And Caspar is there seemingly of his own accord. It makes sense, though. He's always wanted to be a knight, and there is simply no better a place to train than Garreg Mach. Frankly, Linhardt despises the idea. The path of a knight is soaked in blood. Whether it be one's own or that of countless foes is irrelevant. The thought makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust, nearly gagging at the image of his friend covered in it, staining his hands and hair, dripping off his hands. It's enough to give him nightmares, he thinks. And yet, he's glad to see Caspar here with him all the same. Not being here alone will hopefully make the experience a touch more pleasant in the end, even if he'd rather just be at home, buried in his research.

  
Though he supposes the monastery's library does have an extensive amount of material for him to study. That will be nice, at least.

  
"Linhardt!" Caspar calls from across the room, waving frantically. He's standing among other people as well, supposedly those in his house. They look like a pretty lively bunch. Linhardt steals a glance at a scowling man with black hair that droops in front of his face. He hums. Most of them, at least. "I didn't know you were gonna be here too! Come on, say hi!" Caspar goes on, practically bouncing on his own two feet. Linhardt can't help the way his mouth quirks up at the edges fondly. As much as it troubles him to be in the company of so many people, he really can't say no to that, can he? He sighs, making his way towards Caspar and the group he's apparently associated himself with.

  
A young woman in a hat clasps her hands together in front of her. "You two know each other?" she asks politely, though there's something calculated hidden in her tone. Shockingly, Linhardt can't quite put his finger on what it is. "I'm Dorothea Arnault; it's nice to meet you." She's staring at him strangely, as if assessing him, sizing him up.

  
He pays that no mind and nods. "Linhardt Von Hevring. Likewise," he replies. _Of House Hevring_ sounds pretentious, so he omits it altogether. "Caspar is a friend," he goes on, tone flat, as he rests his chin down on top of Caspar's head.

  
That makes Caspar jolt a bit and swat his hand in front of Linhardt's face in annoyance. He leans back purely out of instinct. "We aren't kids anymore. Shouldn't you grow out of that already?" Caspar huffs indignantly, crossing his arms. _Ah._

  
So he's trying to make a decent first impression on his classmates. Linhardt's never been much for those, or pointless niceties in general. He shrugs.

  
"Hmm... I don't believe I'm the one in need of growth here."

  
Caspar twists around to face him at a nearly breakneck speed. "What's that supposed to mean?!" he snaps, face burning red in embarrassment, and probably a healthy dose of anger. It almost looks like he's trying to seem larger somehow, like a cat puffing out its fur. Linhardt suppresses a laugh at that thought, meeting his gaze with self satisfaction and amusement. Realistically, he's the only person who can get away with a jab like that without being punched, a fact he takes great pride in.

  
Dorothea snickers softly to herself, a hand over her mouth. Beside her, another woman with white hair blinks in a sort of performative exasperation. "A close friend, by the look of it," she muses, though her tone is even and neutral. Caspar appears to deflate, muttering to himself. She goes on, "My name is Edelgard Von Hresvelg, your house leader from here on out." He's incredibly familiar with that name, though he's never seen her in person.

  
Linhardt hums in acknowledgement, allowing her to continue with her speech and introduce him to his apparent classmates. They seem nice enough, and he recognizes most of their surnames. Still, he's not terribly interested in any of them, but he's never been too interested in making friends in the first place. He just hopes he'll be able to shake them off his shoulders.

  
  
He doesn't.

Each and every one of them seems to creep into his space whenever they see fit, especially his new professor, who's got a stare that could pierce right through him. He does his best to avoid them, and his classmates as well. To no avail, of course. Dorothea sits beside him in the dining hall anytime she can and talks his ear off. Bernadetta tails him on his way to the library on occasion, peeking at him from behind corners like a shadow. Ferdinand pesters him to take his training more seriously. Edelgard tracks him down when he sleeps in instead of attending lectures, Hubert at her heels like a dog. Petra sometimes asks him to explain parts of lessons that don't translate easily. She's by far the least troublesome; he likes her the most. Of course, he'd prefer not to be bothered at all, but that isn't exactly possible when the only person he really cares to spend any time with is determined to befriend everyone Linhardt just wants to avoid.

It's always been an inevitability, he supposes. Caspar is much more social than he is. That isn't really saying much, all things considered, but Caspar has always been the one to seek out companionship. It just so happens that Linhardt is the only person that's stuck by his side this long. He's actually a little glad to see Caspar getting along with so many people, even if it means he has to sit through more chatter than he's used to, letting his classmates tug him every which way.

  
At least his room is quiet. He leans back in his chair, fiddling with the quill pen in his hand. A couple candles burnt almost all the way down are all that lights up his desk enough to see the papers scattered in front of him. Messy sketches of crests he's taken fleeting interest in litter the pages, surrounded by notes. Chicken scratch, really. He sighs. He hasn't made any actual progress with this. He can't even say for certain what it is he's trying to learn here. It feels like he already knows everything that he's written down. Perhaps he just needs to take a break. Or sleep.

  
Sleep, most likely.

  
Linhardt sits the quill down on top of the pages and pushes himself to his feet, stretching out his limbs. He blows out the candles and blinks to adjust to the nearly pitch blackness now enveloping his sight. It's late, he realizes. He's been staying up a lot more lately, lost in all the books he can carry back to his room from the library. His note taking has been frantic, obsessive, these last few weeks. He's determined to dig deeper while he's still got the will to continue. He has to be on the cusp of a discovery. He_ has_ _to be._ There's a feeling of dread he's had building up inside of him for a while, from the strange, lingering stares he receives from Tomas as he gathers research material, to the way Seteth hovers around and pulls Flayn from his grasp whenever he thinks to question her about her crest. Something just isn't right here. Linhardt frowns as he steps towards his bed and collapses onto it.

  
He pulls the blanket up and over himself, anxious thoughts taking up far too much space in his head to actually get comfortable. Yet those don't have long to fester, however, because soon he hears his door creak open. Just the distraction he needs. "Yes, Caspar?" he mutters without even lifting his head up.

  
He can hear Caspar shuffling where he stands, just barely peeking through the door. His fingers tap idly on the wooden frame. "O-oh, I thought you were sleeping," he responds slowly. Linhardt presses his face into the pillow.

  
"I'm certainly trying to."

  
Caspar makes a noise in the back of his throat, almost like a cough that dies before he can choke it out. "Well..." he starts, pausing as if to carefully consider his words, although it's infinitely more likely that he's just tripping himself up. He's never been the most eloquent, but Linhardt waits silently for him to figure out what it is he wants to say anyway. "It looks like it's going to storm tonight... Petra said she thinks it might get p-pretty bad."

  
Linhardt barely holds in a scoff, but he can't keep the grin from spreading across his face. "I know," he muses. That's the whole reason his door is unlocked. He shifts onto his side to look over at Caspar nervously picking at his fingernails in the dark. His head is ducked low in embarrassment, turned away from Linhardt's calculated gaze.

  
This has been somewhat of a ritual for them since they were little, Caspar coming over on gray-skied days and crawling into bed with him. Seems like his parents never paid enough attention to comfort him through it, and his brother - well, Linhardt doesn't have many nice things to say about him. If any at all. Caspar clears his throat. "Y-yeah, of course.. Can... Can I stay here tonight?"

  
Linhardt could never turn him down, both out of genuine sympathy for his dear friend and a selfish desire to indulge himself in Caspar's company. Still, he can't resist the urge to tease him a little bit about it. "I thought we were too old for that," he says, blinking slowly.

  
It's too dark to know for certain, but Linhardt is convinced he catches the way Caspar's face flushes with color. "Are you making fun of me?" he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest in a childish huff. _Cute._

  
Linhardt laughs softly to himself, endlessly fond. "I would never," he croons, lifting up his blanket in a peace offering. Caspar visibly hesitates, as if to save his pride somehow, but a flash that lights up the room makes him jolt towards the bed faster than any person should be able to move. He scrambles to get beneath the blanket, slinging an arm around Linhardt and pulling him close. The low rumble of thunder comes only a few seconds later, and Caspar buries his nose in the crook of his neck. That sends an embarrassing rush of warmth to Linhardt's ears, but he tries hard to ignore it as he rubs circles into his friend's back. Another streak of lightning cuts the sky through his window, and Caspar sucks in a shuddering breath.

  
"Relax.. I've got you, Caspar," Linhardt murmurs, pressing his cheek to the top of Caspar's head. His hair is soft, and it tickles Linhardt's nose. He smiles, gently smoothing his hand over Caspar's so that his fingers relax where they're knotted into his shirt. It's tempting to kiss him right then, to pepper a few all over his face. Linhardt wonders how he'd react. Would he recoil in confusion, or would he turn that familiar shade of red and lean into it?

  
Those thoughts are what finally lull him to sleep, Caspar breathing softly against his neck.

  
  
Linhardt doesn't leave his room so much anymore. He doesn't have it in him, he thinks. Not since the professor went missing a few years ago and he's been locked into a hopelessly bloody war he never wanted any part of. The things he's dedicated so much time into, all of his crest research, are on the edge of becoming completely obsolete. That is if Edelgard gets what she wants in the first place, he supposes. If not, then he's a dead man anyway. There was never a choice; he's just doing what he has to. The pointlessness of it all is finally getting to him, taking root at his feet and rendering him completely immobile. He's tired, _so_ tired, and sleep only seems to make him moreso these days. Yet he rarely ever finds himself crawling out of bed, existing in a state of not quite conscious or unconscious.

  
"You've gotta get up sometime, you know," Caspar huffs, barging into his room. "Have you even eaten?" He makes his way towards Linhardt, who only glances at him before letting his eyes fall shut again. He recalls a time when the terrain of books scattered about his room was ever changing, something for Caspar to carefully maneuver around. Now it seems that he doesn't even have to look where he's going to step around them. Dust is gathering on their covers, untouched.

  
When he sits down on the edge of the bed, Linhardt turns away from him. "You look like a ghost," Caspar continues, voice softening into concern. He places a hand on Linhardt's shoulder.

  
"I don't doubt that," he mumbles almost inaudibly. He's probably in a pretty sorry state, all things considered, but he can't seem to muster up the ability to care. Caspar absentmindedly touches his hair, careful not to tug on any knots. Sometimes he gets this way, uncharacteristically gentle and quiet. Linhardt waits for it to spark something in him, for his heart to race the way it did when they were kids, or for the giddy warmth to wash over him like it used to. Nothing happens.

  
It's been this way for a while now. Linhardt loves Caspar, has for as long as he can remember, but he loves him differently now. The way one loves water for keeping them alive, thoughtlessly, but ever present.

  
"Your hair's gotten pretty long," Caspar comments, brushing it out of Linhardt's face. He simply hums in response, uninterested in casual conversation. Caspar sighs in defeat, pushing on his shoulder. "Come on, buddy, sit up." He tugs on his arm, pulling him into a sitting position, albeit without much help from Linhardt at all.

  
"What are you doing, Caspar," he huffs, voice dry and crackly from disuse. He feels like a ragdoll, hunching in on himself even when he's supposed to be upright. Eyeing Caspar as he stands up and takes a couple steps towards his desk, he crosses his legs in front of himself.

  
Caspar searches through the many discarded papers, looking for something. He makes a small triumphant noise when he appears to find it, turning back around to face Linhardt. It looks like the ribbon he usually puts his hair up with. "For one thing, I'm taking you to the dining hall to get some real food. I haven't seen you eat in... I dunno, a week? Are you at least drinking enough water?" he asks, taking a seat beside Linhardt and giving him that worried pout of a look he always seems to nowadays. "Turn your head." Carefully, he coaxes Linhardt to do so with a hand.

  
He doesn't quite understand what Caspar is trying to do until he feels hands pulling the shorter strands of his hair back, combing through it. Linhardt furrows his brow, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. There's that spark of emotion he'd been waiting for earlier. If nothing else, it's definitely been a while since he's gotten embarrassed. "I am fully capable of taking care of myself, you know," he says with a frown.

  
Caspar scoffs, clumsily tying the ribbon into place. "Obviously," he retorts. His hands still for a moment, almost as if lost on what to do, before he sits them down on his knees, satisfied. "It doesn't look as nice as when you do it, but it's a lot better than it was before." He leans over to poke his head into Linhardt's field of vision, smiling.

  
Linhardt can't help but be endeared by him. "Thank you," he rasps. His throat is so dry. When was the last time he had anything to drink? How many times has he slept since then? It would probably be good for him to take Caspar up on that offer to go to the dining hall with him, but he's too stubborn to give in that easily. "Can't you just bring me something?" he continues, mumbling.

  
Caspar narrows his eyes, the smile on his face souring. "Don't make me carry you." He pushes himself to his feet, hands held out for Linhardt to take.

  
He doesn't, of course, gauging Caspar's reaction. Surely he's bluffing. "You won't," Linhardt says with a shake of his head.

  
A hand reaches closer to him, and when he shuffles away from it, Caspar raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Alright, fine," he replies, tilting towards Linhardt and hooking an arm around him. "Up we go!" He's not bluffing.

  
"No. No._ No._ Absolutely not," Linhardt snaps, pushing his palm against Caspar's shoulder to shove him back. That doesn't do much except amuse him, though. It's really not much of a fight at all. Caspar swings an axe around every day that's twice Linhardt's weight; of course he's stronger than someone who's barely left his room in months. He lifts Linhardt up with ease that should probably embarrass him. And it does. He's mortified, really. "Okay, alright! I'll walk! Just - Just put me down!" he continues, a touch louder than he ought to, covering his face with his hands.

  
Caspar laughs, energetic and bright. "That's the spirit!" He lets Linhardt stand on his own two feet, bouncing excitedly. "Come on, everybody's gonna be really happy to see you." He takes Linhardt's hand and guides him out of his room, pulling him off towards the dining hall. Linhardt doesn't even bother to mention that he's without shoes, dressed in the same bed clothes he's been in for days now. He stares down at Caspar's fingers, laced with his.

  
"Linny!" Dorothea cries the moment she sees him, darting in their direction. She flings her arms around him, and he stumbles backwards in surprise. Caspar's grip tightens, keeping him upright, and he becomes a little bit more conscious that their hands are still locked together. "I was so worried about you!" Dorothea presses her face into his shoulder. He pats her back as comfortingly as he's able to with his free hand, somewhat dazed. Not far behind her are Petra, Edelgard, and Ferdinand. He doesn't expect them to be nearly as forthcoming and affectionate as Dorothea is, but Petra sidles up to him and hugs him close as well. Suddenly he's feeling a little suffocated.

  
He blinks a few times, uncertain. "Hello," he says dumbly, and Edelgard muffles a soft laugh with her glove.

  
Ferdinand claps a hand down on his shoulder. "I knew you would come around," he comments, beaming. He nods his head, as if locked in conversation with only himself. "Although I cannot say I approve of the state of your appearance, I am happy to see you again."

  
Dorothea leans back and shoots him a glare. "Oh, leave him be, Ferdie!" she huffs, turning her gaze back on Linhardt. She places both of her hands on his face, examining him. He stares back curiously. "I'm just glad you're okay, even if you are a bit... paler than usual." She's looking at him strangely, with an emotion that's hard to place. Linhardt decides it must be sympathy, and perhaps understanding.

  
Petra breaks away from him when Dorothea does. "It has been long - _a long time since_ anyone has been seeing you. We had hope that Caspar could be convincing you to approach us," she explains, and Linhardt glances around at everyone. Even Hubert is there, although he's hanging back and avoiding the crowd around him. So is Bernadetta, who's sitting down at a table not too far from them. She waves sheepishly at him when their eyes lock.

  
"It didn't occur to me," he starts slowly, carefully. "that you all would be so concerned on my behalf." Truth be told, he's a little bit touched.

  
Edelgard smiles at him, but he catches the way her eyes flit between him and Caspar, assessing them. _That's right._ They still haven't let go of each other's hands. "Of course we were, Linhardt. There is only room in our ranks for one recluse," she teases, and Bernadetta squeaks in embarrassment from where she's seated.

  
Linhardt doesn't speak for a moment or two, just eyeing them all. He lowers his head. "I see. Thank you," he murmurs, something he hasn't felt in a while budding in his chest. More than anything, though, he's exhausted and uncomfortably hollow. Maybe it has been too long since last he ate, if the way simply standing this long has winded him is any indication. "As heartwarming as this has been, I need to sit down," he continues after a short period of silence.

  
Caspar jumps where he's standing beside him, as if in realization. "Oh yeah! Why didn't you say something earlier?" he replies, tugging Linhardt by his hand towards the table Bernadetta is at, right across from her. He takes a seat, and it finally seems to occur to Caspar that he's supposed to let go. He laughs, although it comes out a bit tense, and pulls back. "Didn't even realize, haha... Sorry about that." His ears are red.

  
Linhardt is the portrait of disinterest, feigned as it may be. "Hm? I didn't even notice." That's a lie. He's been acutely aware of it for the last ten minutes, and now he's just aware of how much colder his hand is.

  
"You're probably famished, aren't you? You _are_ perhaps more gaunt than you should be," Edelgard says from behind him, and when he looks back at her she's frowning sadly. Almost like she feels a bit guilty, responsible somehow. He doesn't say anything to point it out, though. Instead, he nods, and she sends Hubert off to get him something from their supply of rations.

  
Petra sits down beside him, scolding him for not taking proper care of himself. Edelgard agrees, as stern as ever, not even speaking up to defend him when Ferdinand starts explaining that it's a noble's duty to take deep pride in their appearance. The only one who seems to jump to his rescue is Dorothea, who ruffles his already unkempt hair and comments that at least he tried to put it up. Caspar laughs at that, exchanging a glance with Linhardt. The dining hall is alive with chatter, not unlike the way it used to be. He finds that he's actually missed that, as much as he used to deny how fond he'd grown of his classmates.

  
For a moment, he's almost content.

  
  
The last coherent thought Linhardt has as something punches through him, is that they're almost done. The war is nearing its conclusion. He's been looking forward to seeing that day when it comes, but when he looks down all he sees is the head of a spear lodged into his side. His assailant rips it back out, turning tail and running.

  
Linhardt hits the ground.

  
He doesn't know how long he lies there, or when his allies realize he's not among them anymore. All he knows is that he can't think clearly over the way his entire body burns itself alive. He's cold and hot and in enough pain to rip his own hair out just to distract himself from it. If only he had the energy. The entire lower half of his torso feels wet, and his clothes stick to him. He blinks a couple times in an attempt to clear the haze from his vision, straining to lower a hand and touch the place where the pain is the worst. He winces at the mere contact. When he looks at his palm, it's stained red. A few years ago he probably would have retched at the very sight of it. Now he simply stares blankly, not quite absorbing what it means that he's covered in blood that puddles beneath him.

  
"Linhardt!" a familiar voice screeches in horror, cutting through the ringing in his ears.

  
He presses both of his palms against the ground beneath him and tries to push himself upwards. "Caspar," he responds weakly, head swimming. Something splatters on the ground beneath him, and he collapses back into it, spots beginning to dot his vision. He can hear armor clanging, and then the sound of someone kneeling beside him.

  
Caspar places his hands on Linhardt's shoulders, turning him onto his back. Linhardt groans at the slightest movement, and he squints against the blinding light piercing into his retinas when he looks up. "It's bad, Dorothea. Do you think you can fix it?" Caspar asks, his voice faltering as he turns his gaze on her._ Ah._ Linhardt hadn't even noticed her there.

  
Dorothea sits down next to them, reaching her hands over him. Her fingertips brush up against his abdomen and he imagines that should hurt more than it does._ Shock must be setting in then,_ he thinks. Dorothea makes a face, her brows scrunched together and her lips pulled into a tight frown. "I'm not as good at this as Linny is, but I think he'll be okay," she says, brushing the hairs that stick to his forehead away. He vaguely sees her fingertips light up, magic gathering in the palms of her hands before spreading out across his body. It's... Warm. He sighs.

  
After a few seconds, Linhardt is able to focus his eyes on Caspar, hovering above him. He's finally able to take a good look at him. Caspar's hair is matted and bloody, still wet where it encroaches on his hairline. It oozes over his temple and down towards his cheek. His armor is coated in dirt and dented, right at the breastplate. He's sweaty and grimy, but his weapons aren't anywhere on him. The battle must be over.

  
"You're injured," Linhardt rasps, raising a hand up to touch Caspar's face. The blood is still sticky, staining his fingers red. He cringes at it, but he doesn't pull back until the simple task of holding his arm up becomes too difficult. "I'll heal that for you. Just... Just give me a minute." His eyelids flutter. Is he always this tired?

  
Caspar's armor rattles as he leans over him anxiously. "Hey! You can't sleep yet," he says, just urgent enough that Linhardt peeks his eyes open again. Caspar exhales a shaky, relieved breath, expression softening. "In a little bit. Just look at me for now, okay?" Linhardt almost swears he hears his voice crack.

  
He blinks the darkness creeping into his vision away. "I'm always looking at you."

  
Caspar laughs, but it sounds strained, perhaps even choked. Dorothea giggles as well, but her voice is much lighter, almost teasing. "You must be delirious," Caspar mutters, sitting back and trying not to look as embarrassed as he clearly is.

  
Still, all things considered, there might be a bit of truth to that. If the puddle Linhardt is currently lying in is any indication, he's lost a lot of blood. He's dizzy, lightheaded, not quite thinking straight. At least what remains of the dull, throbbing pain is finally subsiding, giving way to a fatigue that only white magic ever seems to inflict on him. His body feels like it's enveloped in cotton, and he struggles to stay awake.

  
"I don't think you're going to make it back to camp like this," Dorothea remarks, running a hand over the wound. It feels normal; her fingers don't dip into a wound like he flinchingly expects them to. He is incredibly sore, however. She must finally be finished. "_Someone's_ gonna have to carry you," she goes on, a mischievous lilt in her voice. Linhardt isn't so far gone that he doesn't realize what she's getting at. He groans in protest.

  
There's no reason to argue with her, though. He couldn't possibly walk that far in his condition. "Take off your armor, Caspar," he huffs, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Even that much is difficult. His head swims at the strain it puts on him.

  
Caspar stiffens, eyes wide in confusion. "I - What?"

  
As fond of him as Linhardt is, he's too exhausted to comment on that reaction. Maybe later. "Your armor. Take it off," he repeats. When Caspar doesn't move, as if waiting for an explanation, Linhardt sighs and gives him one. "So you don't open up my wounds again." He gestures with a hand towards the dent in the metal, where the edges of it jut outwards sharply. Too much of his weight is braced against one arm, so he lets the other one fall back down.

  
Caspar shifts where he's sitting, realization dawning on him all too slowly. "O-oh. Of course. Yeah," he finally says, standing up and obliging. "Yeah, that makes sense." _Goddess_, he's so stupid. Linhardt adores him.

  
Dorothea smiles at him knowingly, the same way she had when they first met. He almost feels foolish for not realizing the meaning behind it all that time ago, but he supposes he's just fortunate she never confronted him about it. "I think I'll go ahead of you to tell everyone else that you're alright," she says, amused. Then she gets to her feet and dusts herself off.

  
Caspar barely glances at her, too focused on stripping the layers of armor off himself to pay her much attention. "I guess they're probably worried about us, huh," he replies absently, suddenly much smaller in only his regular clothes. "Thanks Dorothea." He puts the last of it down and grins at her, completely oblivious to her ulterior motive.

  
She scoffs, smiling back and giving him the smallest wave as she turns away from him. "Of course." And then she heads off towards their camp, laughing quietly to herself. Linhardt scowls at her as she goes.

  
Caspar steps a little closer to him and crouches down again. "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't really sound sorry at all. "At least you don't have to be carried back by... I dunno, Hubert or something." With that, he scoops Linhardt up a little bit too easily, one arm braced against his shoulders and the other hooked under his knees. Linhardt grumbles, but he doesn't complain, letting his head fall against Caspar's chest. His heart is beating unusually fast. Linhardt smiles softly and closes his eyes.

  
He nearly falls asleep like that when Caspar clears his throat. "Hey, um.. Lin?" he murmurs, quiet enough that he must think Linhardt is actually sleeping. A rarity.

  
"Hm?"

  
Caspar clicks his tongue, but he doesn't speak again for a while. "When... When this is all over, let's run away," he eventually chokes out, anxious. "It could be just the two of us, like we promised when we were kids."

  
Linhardt peers up at him curiously. "I didn't think you remembered that."

  
"I think about it a lot."

  
"...Oh."

  
"Yeah."

  
Linhardt realizes that he's holding his breath, and exhales. "So do I," he admits, speaking slow and careful. A beat of silence. He lifts up his arms and wraps them around Caspar's shoulders, definitely because hunching them into his torso is getting uncomfortable, and definitely _not_ for the simple pleasure of it. "Running away together," he echoes, finding that he likes the way those words taste on his tongue.

  
Caspar casts him a quick glance. His face is flushed with color.

  
"Sounds an awful lot like eloping," Linhardt remarks after a moment of reflection, and Caspar completely stutters to a halt. His arms tense up, and for a moment, Linhardt almost expects to be dropped. Just in case, he grips the collar of Caspar's shirt.

  
Even Caspar's ears are red now. "I'm being serious!" he huffs, completely indignant. His voice pitches up in embarrassment, and Linhardt shifts his hands upwards. "You don't always have to make fun of -" He rests his palms on Caspar's face and cranes his neck to meet him in the middle.

  
It's not a great angle by any means, and Caspar takes a moment to register what's happening before leaning into it. His mouth tastes like sweat, and Linhardt's tastes like copper, but he savors this little moment for as long as he can anyway. It's not so bad, really, albeit a bit clumsy. Linhardt decides to blame that on the fact that he's barely conscious at this point, and not at all on his own lack of experience.

  
When he leans back, Caspar is staring at him like this is the first time they've ever actually seen each other. "Caspar," he breathes, letting his hands fall back to his shoulders.

  
"Y-yeah?"

  
Linhardt's eyes start to droop, and he tips his head back against Caspar's chest. His entire body feels like lead. "I think I'm going to pass out now." The fact that he's made it this long is incredible, honestly.

  
Caspar nods, stiff. "Okay." Vaguely, Linhardt can feel them begin to move again, slower than before, as he drifts off.

  
  
He isn't sure how much time passes before he finally peeks his eyes open. When he does, it's like he'd never been injured to begin with. His body feels well rested and his head is clear again. Linhardt hums curiously, lowering a hand towards the tear in his clothes. The only remnant of his wound is a patch of scar tissue that feels strange and rough against his fingertips. "How long was I asleep?" he mutters, turning his head to face Caspar, who's slumped over at his side. He doesn't receive a response.

  
Both of them are still dirty, dry blood and grime stuck to their bodies. Caspar doesn't even look like his own injuries have been taken care of. "Hey," Linhardt says, sitting up and leaning towards him. He waves a hand in front of Caspar's face. "Wake up." This time he speaks more insistently, and when Caspar doesn't stir he yanks on his ear a little more roughly than he had intended to.

  
But it works nonetheless. Caspar jolts, gasping in shock and flinging a hand upwards to grab at Linhardt's wrist defensively. He stares, eyes like a threatened animal, until he seems to realize what's happening. Suddenly Linhardt is grateful he doesn't have a weapon on him. "Wh - Linhardt? What the hell?" he snaps, letting go of his arm.

  
Linhardt huffs out a frustrated breath. "You scared me!" He crosses his arms. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to fall asleep when you have a head wound?"

  
Caspar's brows crease together, and he scowls. "I scared _you?_ You almost _died_, you know," he says angrily, pursing his lips together. There's something a lot like disappointment on his face, and Linhardt can't quite pinpoint why. It makes him feel a little guilty anyway.

  
"Sorry," he responds after a while, lowering his voice. "I was worried. Why haven't you had anyone heal that for you?" He pushes Caspar's bangs back to get a better look at the damage, cringing at the feeling of broken skin against his fingertips. He swallows the bile rising up in his throat and pulls his hand back, wrinkling his nose. Disgusting. Utterly and absolutely wretched.

  
Caspar hisses in pain at the sensation, squirming in place. "I told Dorothea not to worry about it since a lot of people needed her help more than me," he explains. He starts picking nervously at the dirt under his fingernails, avoiding eye contact. "Plus you said you'd do it, remember?"

  
Linhardt doesn't, and that makes him feel pretty awful. "I don't really remember much after I was stabbed." he admits, gesturing for Caspar to come closer. "Here... Let me take care of you." There's something intentionally intimate about that phrase, and it makes his heart stutter to say it out loud.

  
Caspar shuffles forward hesitantly, his gaze low. It's not like him at all to be so reserved in Linhardt's company, but he seems strangely bashful as he peers down at the floor. His eyes only flit upwards momentarily when Linhardt's palms begin to glow, the lines of Saint Cethleann's crest enveloping his head in soft, warm light. It turns the coppery discoloration in his hair gold, and the rest of it silver. He breathes out, slow and steady, and closes his eyes.

  
"You're lucky it isn't very deep, but I still wish you had treated it earlier," Linhardt says, splaying his fingers out across Caspar's scalp. "If Dorothea was busy you could have simply woken me." Head wounds aren't something to be trifled with; even the shallowest ones bleed _so much_. They fester and get infected easily as well, and Linhardt has no clue how long Caspar's gone without getting the help he needs.

  
Caspar purses his lips into a pout. "You were resting... I didn't wanna bother you," he mutters, sheepish. It's starting to become unsettling, just how quiet he's being.

  
Linhardt makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. "When has that ever stopped you before?" he questions, and when Caspar only shifts where he sits uncomfortably instead of replying, Linhardt stops what he's doing entirely. He's mostly closed the wound; it can afford to wait a moment now. He presses the palms of his hands to Caspar's cheeks and tilts his face up to search his expression. "Why are you acting so strangely? You don't seem like you have a concussion." His eyes are clear and focused, even if they won't focus on Linhardt directly. His pupils don't look dilated, either.

  
"Linhardt..."

  
He's not paying much attention to Caspar's mumbling, examining him closely. He doesn't appear nauseous or disoriented, and his speech hasn't been slurring. There's a pretty nasty bruise left over on his forehead where Linhardt has yet to finish healing him, but all that's left of the gash is a small cut. It doesn't even look like it'll leave a noticeable scar once he's finished with it. He can't find a single indication that Caspar is concussed at all.

  
"Linhardt," Caspar repeats, louder this time. He's red in the face, and his mouth twists into a pout. "Do you really not remember _anything_ from before you fell asleep?"

  
Thoughtful, Linhardt leans back. "So that's what this is about," he muses, tapping his chin a few times in mock contemplation. That earns him a glare from Caspar, and he laughs before focusing back on healing his wounds. "Well, I remember I couldn't walk back to camp, and you carried me." He watches the expression on Caspar's face shift from annoyance to something like hope, a grin tugging the corners of his lips upward. He has no right to be as cute as he is.

  
Linhardt watches the skin stitch itself back together beneath the pads of his fingers, bruising all but disappearing at his touch. He's right, not even a scar. It's like nothing happened to begin with. He runs a hand through Caspar's hair gently, as if searching for anymore wounds to heal. In truth, he just wants to, even if it's dirty and coarse. And yes, even if there's an awful patch of red on one side. How romantic of him. "I also seem to recall you asking me to elope with you," he coos, all too pleased by the look on Caspar's face.

  
"_You_ said that!"

  
Linhardt can't help but laugh, endlessly amused by his friend's complete and utter lack of any tact. "Did I?" he asks, smiling innocently. "That's too bad. I liked the sound of it."  
Caspar furrows his brow. It takes him a moment to speak. "You're not just teasing me?" he questions, almost disbelievingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

  
"No, Caspar. I'm not teasing you," Linhardt says truthfully. He lowers his gaze, reaching out to coax Caspar to give him a hand. He begrudgingly relents, eyeing Linhardt in confusion as he takes it gently between his own. "You know, very little is able to hold my interest for long. Not even my own research most of the time. Yet I never tire of you, no matter how much time we spend together... I don't think I ever could."

  
For a while, Caspar stares at him, like he's waiting for Linhardt to take it back. He never does, of course. Instead, he rests their joined hands down in his lap, thumb grazing over calloused knuckles.

  
"So, logically, I think there's no better a person for me to spend the rest of my life with."

  
Caspar doesn't say anything. He just keeps staring, eyes wide. Linhardt's mouth is dry. He suddenly feels like he has to keep speaking, to fill the silence, which is thick and heavy in the space between them. Being so nervous is unfamiliar to him in recent years. It's a strange feeling. He averts his gaze, worrying the inner part of his cheek anxiously. "We could travel," he says, his voice a bit more stilted than he'd intended. What if he's read this whole thing wrong? All this time? "We've been to so many places, and yet everytime we go somewhere new we soak the soil at our feet in blood. I'm tired of it; I'm tired of fighting, Caspar. Are you not?"

  
Still nothing. Caspar's expression is different now. Sympathy, Linhardt thinks. "I want... I want to see things how they used to be. How they will be again someday," he goes on, words spilling out of his mouth faster than he can conjure them up. Now that he's started, he's not sure he can stop. He squeezes Caspar's hand. "And I want you to be there with me. Just like this. Always." It's really starting to sound like a marriage proposal, but he supposes that's what it had been from the beginning.

  
Finally, Caspar opens his mouth. "Linhardt?"

  
"Yes?"

  
He steals a glance down at their hands before looking back up. "Can... Can we kiss again?" he asks.

  
Ah. Linhardt had forgotten about that. He breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, of course."

  
Caspar rocks forward onto his knees, so close that Linhardt can feel the breath on his cheek. He lifts his hands up tentatively, cupping Caspar's face. His eyes flutter shut, expectant, as his heart hammers away in his chest. The moment seems to stretch on forever before Caspar finally kisses him.

  
He doesn't know what he's doing, tilting his head at an awkward angle. It's chaste, slower than it ought to be, and barely more than a peck when Caspar tries to lean back. Linhardt won't allow it. He chuckles, pulling him back in for another. And another, and another, arms coiling around his neck. A glowing warmth blooms under Linhardt's skin, spreading out across his entire body. He smiles lazily against Caspar's mouth.

  
"Traveling, huh? I didn't think that was your thing," Caspar murmurs when they part, amused.

  
He can't really say it is. Linhardt's never been particularly interested in it, but he knows Caspar could never stay still for long. Besides, he meant it when he said he's tired of the bloodshed. He's ready to breathe air not thick with the scent of decay, and he'll follow Caspar wherever he wants to go.

  
Linhardt presses their foreheads together. "I told you a long time ago, remember? I'll always make an exception for you," he replies, leaning back and pulling Caspar down with him.

  
He scoffs, beaming brightly enough that even as filthy as he is, Linhardt can't help but think Caspar's the most handsome man he's ever seen.

  
"That's kinda sappy."

  
It is. It's unbearably sappy. Linhardt kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> when i was writing the line about caspar being handsome i had to stop and giggle bc i used to call my rabbits handsome little men. and now that's how i see caspar, just a handsome little bunny man. the way it should be.
> 
> as always, i'm @lesboba on twitter!! if anyone wants to talk about fe3h with me,, pls i need more people to yell at about how much i love the black eagles


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